


In Spirit

by AlasDearLady



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Afterlife, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Character Death, Complete, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Canon, Sad, Sad with a Happy Ending, Short, Spirit World, Spirits, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-28
Updated: 2020-12-28
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:34:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28376292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlasDearLady/pseuds/AlasDearLady
Summary: When most people die, they go to the land of the departed, waiting to be escorted to their respective afterlives. On rare occasions, a powerful soul becomes a guardian spirit.Such is the fate of the unknown spirit assigned to a grief-stricken man struggling to come to terms with the pain of loss.
Relationships: Iwaizumi Hajime/Oikawa Tooru
Comments: 4
Kudos: 33





	1. The Return

**Author's Note:**

> This story occurs after the time skip, in an alternate timeline of sorts. The idea for this came to me in a dream, and it is written from a first person point of view. I hope you enjoy the read, and please vote and comment if you feel like it! :) <3

On the twelfth of October, exactly three days ago, I died. 

Other than that, I do not remember anything- not where I was, what I was doing, who I was with. I don’t even know my own name. 

I suppose it no longer matters, so I will not dwell on it. 

Wherever I am - the afterlife, the spirit realm, whatever you wish to call it- is impenetrably dark. It feels as though I am standing in a pit of swirling ink, but it is not exactly unpleasant. Just lonely, and a little strange. 

And then, after hours of solitude, a figure appears before me. It is vaguely humanoid, almost translucent, made of wispy strands like cobwebs that glow with silvery light. My first instinct is to be afraid, but then it speaks. 

“It has been a long time since a spirit like you has come here.” 

I am not sure what to say, so I remain silent. 

“On rare occasion, when a person passes into the afterlife, they are assigned to protect an individual in the land of the living,” it continues. I pretend not to notice that it is floating off the ground. “Your soul is different, child. It is tied to someone else’s. You have been chosen as a guardian.”

I manage to find my voice, this time. I ask the first question that comes to mind.

“Who am I?”

The being in front of me shakes its head. “Who you were in your mortal life matters no longer. You are a spirit guardian now. That is who you are.” 

“How did I die?” 

That question is ignored entirely. I suppose I should be frustrated, but there is a detachment between what emotions I  _ think _ I should be experiencing and how I actually feel. After all, I have already died. It does not matter. 

“Come with me,” the figure says, and it begins drifting away, further and further into the darkness. I have no choice but to follow, or be stranded by myself in the darkness once more. 

“You say that it is my job to protect someone,” I muse aloud. “What does that entail?”

“It is different for every spirit guardian,” says the figure. “It is something you must learn for yourself. I cannot tell you.”

I feel my first real twinge of annoyance since dying. This - spirit guide, I think, is of no real help at all, but there is nothing I can do except follow blindly. 

“Here.” The spirit guide stops suddenly, and my vision gradually comes into focus. 

A small gasp escapes my lips. There are silhouettes, shadows, moving all around me, barely discernible against the background. 

“Are these-”

“Souls of the departed who await their judgment,” the spirit guide says. Its voice is like the low hum of a machine. Like a-

My mind suddenly goes blank, and whatever I was about to think of slips out of reach. I look down at my own hands, and back at the shades in front of me. My skin is not as luminous as the spirit guide’s, but it is shining nonetheless. Far brighter than the shadows. 

“You are different, as I told you,” the spirit guide says, as though it can read my thoughts. “Your soul was made to be a guardian. Now, it is time for you to assume your duties you were destined to fulfil.” 

I nod. The spirit guide stretches out a hand, and a pale oval of light appears in front of me. It is just big enough for a single person to pass through. The shades become agitated at its sudden appearance, and draw back. 

“Beyond this opening,” says the guide, “lies your future.” 

There is something akin to nervousness pooling in my gut, but I have no other choice. I doubt that the spirit guide will allow me to run amok in the afterlife when there is a task at hand. 

“How ironic that I have to return to Earth so soon after I died,” I say half-jokingly. “What was the point of dying at all, then?” 

Spirit guides do not seem to understand irony. 

I close my eyes and step through the glowing portal, into the other side.

* * *

When my eyes open once more, I am standing in someone’s untidy bedroom. 

I think it is one of those rooms that are usually clean, though. The mess lying all around looks far too purposeful. There are two containers of food, lying untouched on a table. Clothes have been flung everywhere, and there is a considerable dent in the dark grey wall where someone seems to have punched it repeatedly. Lying face down in the middle of the room is a shattered picture frame. 

I bend over to pick it up, but my fingers go right through it. I cannot turn over the picture to see what it is. 

I cannot touch things in the mortal realm any more.

The pile of blankets on the king sized bed stirs, and its occupant sits up and looks straight at me. 

Or rather, straight through me. From the blank look in his eyes, I can tell that this man has no idea that I am here. 

He seems to be in his mid-twenties. He has brown skin and spiky dark hair that sticks up in all directions, further rumpled by his evident tossing and turning in bed. There are severe, purplish bags beneath his eyes and drool near the corner of his mouth. 

He is very handsome. 

I watch him warily as he reaches out, patting the mound of sheets and blankets around him as though feeling around for someone, and then he snatches his hand back and clutches it to his chest. His lower lip trembles, and he swipes at it with the back of his hand. 

I do not know what is wrong, but I cannot help but feel a certain sorrow for him. He says something, his lips clearly moving, but I hear nothing. Apparently my sense of hearing no longer works in the mortal world either. This guardian task is shaping up to be more difficult than I anticipated. 

The man presses the palms of his hands to his eyes for a few seconds, and then he staggers out of bed. As he snatches up a shirt at random and pulls it over his head, I see that the knuckles of his right hand are bloodied and bruised. He doesn’t even wince. 

When he walks out of the room, I hesitate for only a moment before following. 

* * *

This man, whoever he is, has a very interesting taste in decor. 

The apartment he lives in seems to have been put together by two very different people. There is a striking Monet piece set high on the wall in the living room, along with plush couches and a mahogany coffee table. Beneath the Monet is a beautifully framed Godzilla poster. 

I cannot help but crack a smile at that. 

He, on the other hand, seems incapable of happy emotion. There is a dull, hollow look in his eyes. It is like watching a reanimated shell of a human. 

As he opens the door to the fridge and peers inside, I cautiously attempt to sit on the couch. I do not know if I will fall through, and I certainly do not wish to find out. 

Somehow, I can sit on the couch just fine. Small mercies. I peer at the man over the back of the couch and wonder if he can sense that I am here. 

If he does, he shows no sign of it. He pulls out a can of some disgusting-looking energy drink and swallows a few mouthfuls of it. I watch the muscles in his throat work with a small amount of fascination. 

I wonder if that is what I looked like when I was alive. Not like him, exactly, but fascinating. It is surprising how much detail, how much beauty can be found in a single human motion when one takes the time to observe it. 

He pours the rest of the can down the sink, comes over to the couch and sits next to me, drawing his knees up to his chin and wrapping his arms- long, muscly arms- around them. His eyes are far away, and they are already welling up with tears. 

I do not know what comes over me. I put a hand on his shoulder. 

Of course, it goes straight through. 

The man bolts upright and I nearly fall off the couch. He is looking right at me once more, his chest rising and falling faster. His eyes are wide and panicked. For a moment, I cannot tell whether he can see me or not, and I forget to breathe. Then I remember I do not need to breathe. 

Eventually, the visible tension ebbs away. 

I sit there with him in silence until he falls into a restless slumber once more. 


	2. The Sleeping Man

I am dreaming, but that should be impossible. I have died, and I should not need to sleep. 

I am running down a street that is both familiar and foreign. I think I am wearing running gear of some kind, but I do not recognize the symbols or colors; my vision blurs strangely when I try to look at it. Some sort of music is playing in my ears, and the sound of it is garbled. 

My eyes fly open, and for a minute I am disoriented before the room comes into focus once more. 

The man is already awake today, and is moving with more sense of purpose than I have ever seen. He is wearing a clean blue hoodie and jeans, his hair still damp from a shower he must have taken while I was...distracted. 

As I gaze at him, there is a sudden sharp pain where my heart should be. 

I barely have time to register what is happening before he snatches up his keys from the living room table and hightails it out the door. I cheat a little and walk through the walls to catch up with him as he makes a beeline for the stairs. 

He takes them two at a time, and I have to jog to keep up. For someone who has only consumed an energy drink in the last twenty-four hours, he is ridiculously energetic. Almost manic. 

There are a few other people milling about outside his apartment complex, basking in the cool morning air or going about their daily business. He does not spare them so much as a glance, even as they give him half-hearted waves. 

“Bad boy,” I mutter. 

The man clambers into a car in the adjoining parking lot. It’s a black sports car, and it looks fairly new. I slide into the seat next to him as the engine rumbles to life and he throws it into gear. 

As the car glides smoothly down the streets, I know I should be looking at the scenery outside, trying to figure out more about his life and where I am, but I cannot help but stare at the side of his face. His eyes are wide and panicked again, and his fingers are digging into the covering on his steering wheel. The bruises on his knuckles are a deeper shade of violet today. 

“Hey,” I whisper. “I’m right here with you.”

Maybe it is my imagination, but he seems to relax slightly. 

I feel guilty that I do not know his name, but the most I can do is accompany him silently. I still have no idea what that spirit guide meant by ‘learning how to protect.’ How can I protect him if I can’t even hear his voice?

My thoughts are halted when the car rolls to a stop, and I realize that he has driven to a hospital. 

* * *

I must have been to a hospital in my former life, because it all feels oddly familiar. 

I hate it. The walls are all the bleak, bland cream of milk that’s gone bad. The furniture is ugly, and the lighting is harsh. Hospitals are wonderful for treating those who are ill, but there is an awful aura that seems to encapsulate them at all times. An aura that goes beyond the dismal stylistic choices of the builders. 

I follow my subject to the front desk, where he asks a pretty dark haired clerk something. I can see that his chin trembles as he says it. 

Together, we walk down a corridor to the left, until we come to an intensive care unit. The man knocks gently, and a nurse answers the door. Finally, I am able to see the reason why he has brought me to this place. The reason why I have been sent to guard him. 

There is another man lying fast asleep in a hospital bed in the room. Where my subject is ruggedly handsome, this one is beautiful, with soft wavy brown hair that fans out on the pillow behind him like a halo. There are more tubes and wires hooked up to him than I can count. He is sound asleep, only the rise and fall of his chest giving any indication of life. 

There is a chair next to the bed, and my subject collapses into it. The nurse hovers at the back of the room, but I note the sad glance she gives him. 

When I look back at him, he is smiling. The shock that runs through me is palpable. 

I have never seen a man’s face more transformed by a smile. There is sorrow, no doubt, and no small amount of fear; but there is hope and love too, and that is what makes it so beautiful. 

“So this is why,” I murmur. I stay there with him while he whispers words that I cannot hear. I watch him wipe silent tears away as discreetly as he can. No one sees them but me, for I am the only one who is looking. 

I know he cannot hear me, but it is the thought that counts. That is what I tell myself as I lean down and whisper in his ear. 

“I will never leave you to suffer alone. Even though you may not see me, I will help you through this, whatever it is.” 

“...tomorrow.”

I recoil instantly, my non-existent heart pounding away in my chest. For a second, I heard him speak. Just a single word, but it is the most wonderful, melodic sound I have ever heard. I must have done something right, if I am beginning to hear. 

Stepping around to the other side of the bed, I peer at the sleeping man’s face with a small amount of curiosity. It is evident that my subject cares for him tremendously; I can see it in his eyes, the way his gaze lingers on the sleeping man’s face, the way his thumb brushes lightly against the man’s wrist. He is painfully gentle, and he is hurting. 

It is hard to watch, but I force myself not to look away. To protect him, I must first get to know him. That is my sole duty as a guardian spirit. 

Of course, I would be lying if I said I did not long to hear his voice once more. 


	3. A Little More Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING  
> There is mention/allusion to a su**ide attempt in this chapter. Please proceed at your own risk!

My subject goes to see the sleeping man every single day, without fail. 

I watch wordlessly as he languishes away for hours on end in his-  _ their _ \- apartment, barely eating, barely doing anything more than sleeping or lying curled beneath his blanket mountain. I wonder if he is trying to recreate the warmth of a body next to his own. Sometimes I sit on the end of the bed near him. It is a feeble attempt at providing comfort, but part of me wishes that he knows I am here. I want to put my arms around him and hold him, but it is not my place to do so. 

I still barely know anything about him or the sleeping man, but I hear loose words and phrases that he says. Only his words, though. Never anyone else’s. Sometimes I find myself yearning so strongly to hear the intonations of his voice, a single syllable, that it frightens me. I do not think guardian spirits are supposed to feel so strongly for their subjects, but then again, my own guide was far from forthcoming. I have no choice but to wade through the murky waters on my own. 

The only time true life returns to his eyes is when he goes to see the sleeping man. 

Over the days that pass, other visitors join us. There is an elderly couple that look strikingly similar to the sleeping man, with the same delicate features. An older woman, grey streaked through her hair and her eyes a warm chocolate brown like my subject’s, sits there with him for hours one day, her arm wrapped comfortingly around his broad shoulders. A stocky young man with a shock of untidy orange hair brings a bouquet of flowers and cracks a fractured smile before he leaves. My subject does not see, but the orange-haired man sits on a bench in the corridor and sobs into his hands, out of earshot. The dark haired man who accompanied him holds him close, his piercing blue eyes fixed on the ground. 

Many more visitors come and go over the next seven days, far too many to count. The sleeping man must have had many friends. 

* * *

One night, I am watching over my subject as he sleeps when I fall into another dream state. My consciousness slips away from me, as elusive as a fleet-footed doe. 

This time, I am lying on the ground, looking up at the cloudy sky. There are muffled sounds around me, as though I am listening underwater. A familiar face swims into vision above me, and then I jolt awake into reality once more, tears streaming down my face. My heart is broken, but there is no reason for me to be sad. 

It is on the eighth day that I hear my subject perfectly clearly for the first time. It is also the worst day thus far. 

We are standing outside the hospital room, and the sleeping man’s parents are there too with a stern-looking doctor. He says something unintelligible, and then the sleeping man’s parents nod, wiping away their own tears and holding each other’s hands in a vice grip. 

My subject’s eyes go wide, and his words strike me to the core. 

“He isn’t dead! Please, give him more time. Just a little more time. Don’t you know him at all? He always comes through.” 

His voice is shaking with the effort of suppressing sobs, and I know better than anyone that he is about to fall apart. 

The doctor is shaking his head ruefully, and the sleeping man’s mother reaches for the man whose life I have been guarding, but he flinches out of reach. I have to run to keep up with him as he storms out of the hospital. His legs are long and powerful and one of his strides is nearly two of mine. 

He drives home like a madman, and I clutch onto the dashboard out of habit. His phone is ringing madly, but he doesn’t seem to be aware of it. 

When he finally makes it to the apartment, he stands there for a second, fists clenched and body trembling. Before I can touch him, he hurtles forward, seizes the antique Godzilla poster from the wall and hurls it onto the ground. Glass shatters, covering the wood floor in a deadly glittering residue. 

Panic is growing in my own mind now. He is ever beautiful to look at, but his eyes are that of one who has entirely lost control of all his senses. 

“Wait,” I cry out. “Stop. You are not alone, Iwa.” 

I do not know where the name comes from. I have no idea who Iwa is, but it appears in my head. If I cannot know his name, I will give him one of my own. 

Iwa is crying in earnest now, terrible, throat-tearing sobs that wrench themselves out of his body. He says a name over and over, a name that I cannot understand. 

“I don’t know what to do,” he gasps out. “You-you can’t leave me forever this time. I’ll die without you.” 

Suddenly, he throws himself forward on his hands and knees, snatching up the largest of the glass shards. The sharpened edge glitters evilly, and with horrifying certainty, I know what he is thinking about doing. 

His hand wavers, little rivers of blood welling up where the glass cuts into his palm. His eyes are glazed over. 

Abruptly and without explanation, I am angrier and more afraid than I have ever been. I do not know what comes over me, but I step forward and hit his arm with all my might, waiting for it to go right through in a futile attempt at dissuading him 

The blow connects with a resounding smack, and Iwa drops the glass shard instantly. 

I walk forward, feeling the tears well up in my own eyes as he flattens himself against the wall behind him, abject terror in his eyes now as they flick back and forth uncontrollably. His tears have stopped out of sheer shock. 

He says that garbled name again, and I cannot stop myself from shouting all manner of curses at him and that sleeping man- the man who has left Iwa alone to become this broken shell of a human. 

I know neither of them are at fault deep down, but it is excruciating to see Iwa like this. I wonder if I have truly been chosen as a spirit guardian, or I have been assigned to my own exquisitely-crafted hell. 

Iwa slides limply to the ground, and I drop to my hands and knees with him. His breathing is evening out, and the manic look is fading. As gently as I can, I take his hands into mine, barely resting my palms onto his. 

Slowly but surely, his hands tighten on mine, and I cannot back away. Somehow, we are able to touch each other, at least for the moment. 

He raises his head, eyes still tearstained and looks right at me. 

The word is spoken softly and lovingly. 

“Tooru?”

* * *

I do not know who that is, but I will do anything to ensure that Iwa’s pain is eased. 

I reach up with one hand and caress the side of his face, running the pad of my thumb along the top of his cheekbone. His breath hitches and he breaks into a watery smile. 

“I’m sorry, Tooru,” he whispers. “I didn’t mean to make you angry. I-I think I might be dreaming, tonight. I dream of you every night.” 

I squeeze his other palm, the bleeding one. He winces slightly, and then he laughs. The sound of it makes me want to cry all over again. 

“I deserved that.” Iwa moves forward suddenly and I have no choice but to put my arms around him and hold him upright, eliciting a whimper. 

“I don’t want to say goodbye to you tomorrow,” Iwa breathes into the crook of my neck. The realization hits me like a lightning bolt- Tooru must be the name of the sleeping man, and he will be taken off his life support tomorrow. Iwa will never see him alive again.

“This is the last time, isn’t it?” Iwa whimpers again, and I draw him closer, rocking him like a child. I wish that Tooru would not leave him like this. Perhaps I can go searching for him in the spirit world, if such a thing is allowed. 

“Please,” he continues, “just for tonight. Just hold me one last time.” 

And so I do. I help him to his feet and help him clean out his wound, and then I cradle his head in my lap on the couch, stroking the hair away from his face as he gazes upward into nothingness. Before I know it, he is asleep. Truly, properly asleep, for what must be the first time in days. For the first time since I met him, Iwa does not sob himself to sleep.

I do not know what is allowing me to hold him, to comfort him like this, but I send my silent gratitude out into the universe, beyond the stars. 


	4. Home

Iwa wakes calmly the next day. There is grief on his face, but there is acceptance too. It hurts to watch, and I swear I will find this Tooru and give him an earful for making Iwa cry. 

I make sure to extricate myself from him before he is fully roused. I hope that I have given him the closure that he needs, even if I cannot be the sleeping man myself. I hope I have given him at least a tiny bit of relief. Still, I feel more sorrowful than ever before, and I am unsure why. 

The drive to the hospital is just as calm as his waking. Iwa is wearing a volleyball shirt beneath a sweater. The shirt is a tad too tight on his chest, but he seems to neither notice nor care. I think he looks wonderful in it. I watched him press a kiss to it before he put it on, but I did not see the name emblazoned on the back. 

Every step nearer to the intensive care unit fills me with a rising sense of dread- not for Iwa, but for  _ myself.  _ Even worse is the fact that I do not know why I feel like this, and I hate not knowing. I’ve always hated that. 

Just then, I feel like I should be addressing something important, but the emotion is fleeting. I am distracted by the group of people that have gathered outside Tooru’s intensive care unit to say goodbye. 

Iwa does not say much beyond polite greetings. None of them seem offended by that. 

The doctor comes out of the room, his rugged face grim with the prospect of what he will soon have to do. 

“Can I say goodbye to him privately?” Iwa says quietly. Once again, his are the only words I can hear, and they are the only words I care about. “Just a final parting message.” 

The doctor nods and ushers him into the room, and I have no choice but to follow. 

Iwa sits in the same chair he always uses. His body is not shaking today, but mine is. I can barely keep my hands steady. I don’t know if that is a common occurrence for guardian spirits. 

Iwa leans forward, takes Tooru’s limp hand in his own and presses it to his lips. 

“Tooru,” he breathes. “My Tooru. You have been a part of me, inseparable, since the day we met as children. Even if the universe is destroyed, every molecule, every atom of me will remember you.” 

He takes a deep breath. I feel like there are ants crawling over my bare skin. Every hair on my body is standing on end. 

“I know you were there with me last night,” Iwa continues, smiling slightly. “I know your touch. I love you, dumbass Oikawa. Go play volleyball with your space opponents in the great beyond.” 

As he says the words, my vision goes black and I spiral into a memory.

* * *

I am running again. The music is playing in my ears, but I can hear it clearly this time. 

And then some great force collides with my body. I hear the roar of an engine, the screech of tires just before the impact. 

When I come to, I am being raced down a hospital corridor. A familiar face is hovering over mine, lines of tension marring it. 

It is Iwa. It has always been Iwa. 

“Oh,” I try to say, but the words catch in my throat. 

“Hold on,” he says. “Tooru, hold on.”

At that moment, I know the truth. 

It is me. I am the sleeping man in the bed. My name is Tooru Oikawa, and I am about to die. 

* * *

“W-wait,” I stammer. With all the strength left in my body, I call out, seeking the spirit guide, the one who brought me back to Iwa in the first place. They are the only thing who can help me now.

And then I am back in the present reality, and time is frozen. Iwa’s hands are hovering over the sleeping man’s. Over  _ my  _ hands. 

The spirit guide is standing in front of me, hovering off the floor. 

“I’m not really dead,” I say, hearing the quiver in my own voice. “I remembered who I am. I’m still here.”

The glowing spirit guide does not have a face, but it nods. I hear its voice echoing in my head. 

“You were a soul caught in limbo between the mortal world and the spirit world.”

Anger rises in my body like poison. “Why did you not tell me? You made me watch h-him suffer, and you knew the entire time. Just what kind of sadistic guide are you?” 

Oddly enough, I sense a smile resonating from the spirit guide. 

“You had to remember on your own, child. Otherwise, you would never have found your way back. You had to learn to do it alone. Even now, there is a memory that escapes you, and you must remember in order to go back. I cannot help you further, and you are running out of time.” 

I wrack my brain, running my hands through my hair over and over in an effort to coax the unknown memory out of my brain, but there is nothing. I can feel time beginning to speed up again.

“I don’t know,” I choke out, feeling the incoming burn of tears once more. “I don’t know what I’m forgetting.” 

The spirit guide says nothing. I look at Iwa, helpless. 

I am running out of options. Any minute now, time will be restored. The doctor will walk through those doors, the farewell will be finished, and I will truly never see Iwa again. 

I am not ready to say goodbye. 

In a last ditch effort, I seize him by the collar of his sweater. My hands go through the material, but when I kiss him, the telltale warmth of his mouth is there. He is here. He is real. 

Memories rip through my mind at the speed of light. I see a sandbox with two children playing in it, a triumphant young boy clutching a butterfly net, another running after him. Two teenagers, standing triumphant on a volleyball court. The same teenagers, older now, comforting each other as their opposing team races off to an awards ceremony. A shared fist bump and a crooked smile in a dark street. A first kiss, and the million others that followed. 

He has always been part of me, and nothing will ever change that. 

I pull away, breathing hard. Iwa is beginning to move again, slowly. There is a ghost of a smile already forming on his face. 

“Hajime,” I say breathlessly. A bout of laughter escapes my lips, and I cannot help but grin. “Hajime Iwaizumi is his name. My Iwa-chan.” 

Then I am falling backwards into an endless whirlpool of suffocating darkness. 

* * *

My eyelids feel like they weigh a ton, but I manage to open them with considerable effort. 

The light above me is blinding, and my eyes begin to water. My throat is sore and my lips are dry and cracked. I am acutely aware of the tube shoved down my throat, but at the moment I do not care. 

Time has unfrozen itself. My gaze latches on instantly to the man sitting in the chair next to me. 

He is half risen out of it, his mouth hanging open. I want to cry out his name, but the damned tube is in the way. I don’t think I could speak aloud if I wanted to. I rely on my eyes to convey the message for me. 

As always, Iwa-chan knows me better than anyone. 

The doctor comes into the room and stops dead in the doorway, but I cannot tear my eyes away from the dark brown ones I have gazed into so many times, for more than two decades. I have every inch of his face memorized. 

Iwa blinks twice. So do I. 

And then his face curves into the broadest, most beautifully lopsided grin I have ever seen in my entire life. I will never forget it. 

“Shittykawa,” he says, “welcome home.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed the story!


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